


once you don’t succeed, recurse, recurse, again ( or futility was always a foregone conclusion ).

by jehobvihosabi



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 10:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19665589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehobvihosabi/pseuds/jehobvihosabi
Summary: Above all else, she chose—— l o v e.





	once you don’t succeed, recurse, recurse, again ( or futility was always a foregone conclusion ).

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt-fill: #Femslash #Cyberpunk

It’s a process. First comes interest, then infatuation, and then throwing everything away just for a chance, a shred of hope— to be _together_.

But life was never designed to be fair, not for them, anyway.

It was little things that bothered her at first. A style would become a trend, an occurrence that was patently unsurprising, there was _always_ a hot, new trend; but after a while, she could clearly recall the same sort of fashion in vogue an era or two ago. And then she’d see it again, and again, and again. How fashions changed as quickly as the days of the week, but then changed _back_. It was the same with art, with music, even with something as mundane as _gossip_. And no one commented; no one seemed to _notice_.

Cloudbank was a city that always changed according to the whims of the people; she knew this, everyone knew this. Yet, when Sybil thought about it, she couldn’t think of Cloudbank as anything other than a stagnant city rendered inert by the very thing it built itself around, a stark contrast to the innovation it tried to boast.

There was no originality; nobody here really wanted anything truly different. A few times she’d seen something fresh and new and bright and _exciting_ , and then swiftly, rejection would follow in its wake; _it was inevitable_ — as if punishing the very idea of originality itself. People just went about their days as if as if as if, but that was it, wasn’t it? The way it was meant to be. Cloudbank was inevitable, _finite_. ‘ _It was designed this way_ ,’ something would whisper in her ear.

Once she saw the pattern, she couldn’t unsee what had become known to her. She could never un-know this terrifying knowledge. There was no pleading to the stars. Color used to paint her days, but now, everything was just… dull greys.

But then, _then_ , she met… others, others who had noticed the same things she had. They had a plan, a plan that would create true change. And how could Sybil say no? How could she see what she had and understood, and then done n o t h i n g ?

They began to call themselves the Camerata, a group united by the terrible truth, with a mission incomprehensible to anyone who didn’t see as they did. No one would understand. _They knew what was best for those who knew nothing at all._

Sometimes, the truth of the world rolled in her stomach, the suffocation and loneliness often-times too much to bear. Sometimes, she wishes she had never known, wishes she had never _seen_ the spine of this world. If she had never noticed, then she wouldn’t be like this— broken and tired and scared, and so many other horrible things that she felt and couldn’t restrain; shards of glass resided inside her and every movement _hurt_.

The TRUTH was so big; it was so much. How could one person even understand? How could they ever hope to fight and win, when it was _the world itself_ , that they were fighting? Sybil doubted. She worried. And often, she cried. She knew. She knew. Why did she have to _know_?

For she could never go back, she could only go forwards, towards her only hope. Her life surrendered to deceit, but she would not feed into pretty lies.

The Camerata fed the hungry beast and hence their own power. Whenever somebody would leave, they simply assumed, and the Camerata rose to further heights. But even with all that they had gathered, it still wasn’t enough. At times like these, eyes would turn her way and she would steer their sight.

Sybil flitted about and charmed shamelessly. Nobody ever realized her aims. Nobody bothered to ever look beyond her superficial exterior; well, no one did until… _her_.

Her name was Red _and she was magnificent_.

The first time they met Red laughed in her face.

It was a soiree for a fundraiser; Sybil didn’t know which for, they all started to blur together after back-to-back attendances. She painted on a smile, fixed her hair once more, and floated through the entryway, immediately swarmed by people vying for her attentions. It was exhausting; her simpering smile only widened.

It went as it always did— _of course it did, how could she have expected anything different_ — until everyone gathered, the lights shone down, and she saw _her_ in the center of it all.

Her eyes were closed, her chin tilted up, and the mic stand gripped between her hands. She was stunning to start with, _but then she parted her lips_. Everyone let out a breath and didn’t breathe in again, too caught up in her spell to do anything else. She radiated a question that Sybil wanted (so badly) to know the answer to.

Sybil gripped her hands together to stop their trembling, but with her hands full, there was nothing impeding the tears carving a way down her cheeks. Her heart gave a tremor and then completely turned over. She was _lost_ , to her song, to the bewitchment the singer had spun, not herself, never herself— she had alreadly lost who she used to be long ago.

She found herself drifting closer before she knew; and then there she stayed, bated breath, chest tight. The show had to end; but when it did, it was like a chill sweeping through her, for just a moment she had…

Sounds of clapping resounded around her and then, she mindfully— always watching, always on— shook herself and joined in. And if her applause was more fevered then she was willing to admit, no one else would know, but her.

She ventured backstage. She couldn’t not. What if what if what if… that singer… with her song… she could be… could be one of _them_.

Sybil was directed to a dressing room and she knocked pointedly and kept knocking until her fist met empty air. Her eyes widened and she uncurled her fist, jerking it out of the face… Oh! It was her! … and she was laughing?

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I was just surprised. You should have seen the look on your face,” she said, speech peppered with giggles, eyes crinkling. Sybil pouted, put out, but reluctantly amused and the smile that broke out across a face, as if a sun coming in from the clouds— clouds Cloudbank never had and never would— revealed as much.

“Hello! I simply adored your performance! My name is Sybil.”

“Nice to meet you! It’s always lovely that people enjoy my singing and come to say so. I’m Red.”

And first it was only a minute interest, but soon… it twisted and transformed, to become a tangled mess she couldn’t find her way out of.

When had she become affixed to this, burned to this? When had the rush turned into this _gnawing_ compulsion. It called to her, it guided her, she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t even _think_.

This fixation was consuming her and _that smile would be her demise_.

Awareness dawned on her vaguely at best. She drifted in and out of a dark expanse, not in control, not in control, _she was never in control was she_?

And then she heard an achingly familiar humming. “That voice, that voice, that voice, we killed him, we killed him, we killed him. Alone, alone, alone, I told them you’d be alone… I told them…”

“We had you, we had you, where did you _go_?”

Not like this, not like this, she couldn’t see her like this. She had just wanted… her voice, her voice, her voice, it was gone, gone, _gone_. “Give it… give it, give it back! It’s not yours, not yours, never yours.”

It was taking over, more and more, moment by moment, and the last left of Sybil had been almost entirely devoured. A warning— “Cannot be stopped, cannot stop, I saved you, I saved you, I always wanted to…” Red wasn’t going to save her… was she.

A final plea— "You knew I would wait I would wait I would wait for you."

And then the end, the conclusion to this miserable jaunt— " _Finally finally finally we can be_ _… can become…_

 _One_."

— what she wanted all along.

If ( Transistor.cloudbank == null || Transistor.country == null || Transistor.traceDatabase == null ) {

shutdown(); cleanup(); rebuild();

 **restart()** ;

}

Red would smile, she would laugh, but she never was truly happy. And it drove her endlessly, indescribably mad. Never was, never would be, almost but never, never enough— that was what Sybil was to Red.

Red would look at her, but she would never take her in; she gazed through her as if as if as if. I’m right here. I’m right here.

I’m here.

 _Aren_ _’t I?_

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a love letter to the game, so thank you Transistor for such a beautiful story; I treasure it greatly.
> 
> I pulled an all-nighter to write this in time and I regret nothing.


End file.
